


Saving you, saving him, saving me

by Halfling



Category: Marvel (Movies), Thor (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfling/pseuds/Halfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint runs into trouble, and Coulson wants to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saving you

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at my [tumblr](http://halfsuper.tumblr.com/) under the name [Orange juice](http://halfsuper.tumblr.com/tagged/orange-juice/chrono).  
> Trigger Warning: includes depiction of a fatal beating and some homophobic language.

Coulson buzzed at Clint's apartment at 10 in the morning. Coulson had been awake for five hours, and had spent all of them waiting to hear from Clint but he wasn't answering his phone. He told himself he was only checking in on an Agent under his command as he blew warm air between his near-frozen hands on the apartment's stoop. He buzzed again, and finally got an answer.

"What. Do you want?" the irritated voice came through the speaker.

"This is Agent Coulson, you weren't answering your phone."

"Shit. What time is it? Door's unlocked."

Sure enough, it was unlocked, though Coulson hadn't heard any click to indicate it'd been locked before. When he opened the door he realized why. Staring him down as he stepped into the stairway was the deadly end of a crossbow from a improvised booby trap. It clicked menacingly the moment he stepped through but Clint was standing behind it with a smirk, twirling the bolt that was intended for Coulson's head.

"Really, Barton? I assume you know how dangerous that is without me telling you."

Clint shrugged. "Well I do now. So, what can I do for you Phil?"

"To answer your earlier question, it's 1000 hours. You were due to check in before 0600 hours."

"I was sleeping. Didn't get in till 5 or so. I'd really rather have this conversation in the kitchen if you don't mind."

"Feel free to put some clothes on while you're at it."

"Don't tempt me," Clint laughed.

Coulson carefully stepped around the crossbow contraption and followed Clint up the stairs. Clint began fishing around in the cabinets, looking for something unsuccessfully.

"I know I had a coffee pot at one point, but I can't seem to find it. I have orange juice, would that be alright?"

The sudden hospitality was unexpected coming from someone who made a game out of being as unhelpful as possible at work. The only reason Clint was working under Coulson was because he was the only Agent who would put up with his antics. "Orange juice would be fine. Thank you."

"Good. Uh, please have a seat." Clint gathered up the fast food wrappers piled on the counter and hastily shoved them under the sink. There was no table, so Coulson sat on the stool by the counter. It had a place for another stool next to him but it was missing. The more Coulson looked around the sadder the kitchen appeared. He had no idea Clint was living like this, and he suddenly felt guilty, though he couldn't place why.

"There." Clint placed a chipped "I *heart* NY" mug of juice in front of him. "Not even expired yet! The juice, I mean. It's safe to drink. Though, I guess you would assume that, right? Sorry, I don't usually have guests."

"Is everything alright?"

"Huh? Um, yes. Everything's fine, I just slept in, that's all." Clint was leaning over the counter and his shirtless muscles would have been much more distracting under normal circumstances, but Coulson had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he couldn't quite place.

"Nothing I should know about?"

"Nope." He grinned, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing to report, sir."

"Well, if you're sure, I should probably be heading back to HQ."

"Oh, of course. Yeah, I'll um, I'll be in a little later. If that's okay, I mean."

There was something else different about Clint, Coulson thought. Was he being sheepish? It was so very against everything he knew about the sniper that he just stared for a minute before remembering that Clint had spoken. "Oh, er, yes. That would be fine. Thank you for the juice." He tried not to let his concern show on his face as he made his hasty exit.

Clint showed up at HQ an hour after Coulson got back. He was in uniform now, and his hair was damp, presumably from a shower. Coulson squashed the mental picture that threatened to form at the thought.

"Sup, Phil?" Ever since learning Coulson's first name he refused to call him by anything else unless Fury was within earshot. Normally, this would have enticed a twitch, or at least a smile in acknowledgement, but Coulson was still worrying on something he couldn't put a name to, on top of the usual Clint-related feelings that Coulson had been actively suppressing for a while now.

"Paperwork, Barton. You have some to fill out too, if I recall."

Clint stuck his tongue out in disapproval and pulled up a chair to sit on backwards in front of Coulson's desk.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Hawkeye?"

"Got anything needs being shot full of arrows?"

"Not at the moment. I was serious about the paperwork. I'll even help you fill it out if you like."

Clint clicked his tongue and looked away, resting his chin on the chair's back. Coulson couldn't read his facial expression, but there was definitely something weighing heavily on Clint's mind, and it wasn't paperwork.

Coulson decided to step out on a limb. "Can I get you anything? Orange juice?"

Something flashed across Clint's face--was it anger or fear?--and he stood up fast enough to knock the chair over. The sound of it clattering to the floor seemed to snap him out of whatever it was, though, and he hastily set it upright again. "Sorry, I'll, uh, be at the range." He left the office so quickly that one of the degrees on Coulson's wall crashed to the floor.

Coulson picked up the glass carefully, and tossed the frame in the trash. When that was done, he flicked on the monitor on his desk and brought up the security feeds for the archery range on a whim. He watched as Hawkeye lined up shot after shot, and missed one after one. His misses were by inches, but the fact was, Hawkeye's name was not coincidence. Inches he missed might as well have been miles for how much he usually missed his targets by, which was to say, not at all.

A quick zoom in explained why. Clint's hands were shaking. Unsteady hands for an archer could mean the difference between life and death. Whatever was going on with him, it wasn't good.

Coulson still had paperwork to finish, and Fury would probably be on his case about it later, but at the moment he didn't care. Clint was more important.

He went down to the range and found Clint right where he'd last seen him. "Barton. My office, now."

Clint shot one last arrow before turning to glare at Coulson. "You made me miss," he said accusingly.

Coulson leaned to the side so he could see the target behind Clint. Sure enough, the last arrow was about two inches from the bullseye, but so were several others more he'd shot before Coulson came down. "Mmhm. Now, please. Bring the bow if you must"

Clint followed Coulson silently, and Coulson had to resist the urge to turn his head and make sure he was even there. When the door was locked and they were again seated, Coulson behind his desk and Clint in front, he began.

"Something's bothering you and it's affecting your work. Either you tell me what it is so we can deal with it or I put you in for temporary suspension."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

Coulson slid a sheet of paper across the desk. "Got the form right here."

Clint pushed it back without reading it. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Try me.”

The stare Clint gave Coulson was unblinking and utterly devoid of movement. Coulson felt like prey under a predator's gaze. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but years of staring down people pointing guns in his face had trained him with all the false calm he needed to stare back into Clint's eyes. Finally, it was Clint who looked away first.

"Do you swear whatever I tell you won't leave this office?"

Coulson leaned over and hit some keys on his computer. "I just disabled the audio bugs in this room."

Clint's eyes scanned the room, focusing in on three points before turning to look at Coulson again. The bugs were well hidden, but apparently that hadn't stopped Clint from knowing exactly where they were. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing his eyes and opening them again once the air was gone from his lungs. Coulson recognized the ritual as the one Clint always did right before taking a difficult shot in the field.

"Two nights ago," he began, "I went out, after I got off work. Went to a bar, had a few drinks, picked someone up. It was a little crowded, so we left. We were in the alley back behind the bar when we were attacked. I--" He broke off, closing his eyes and repeating the breathing exercise. "I went after the killer, but I had too much to drink, and he got away from me."

Clint's grip on the bow he still had in his hands tightened, and Coulson started to think perhaps letting him bring it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had.

Clint continued, "I used SHIELD resources to find out where he lives." He met Coulson's eyes, looking for a reaction, but Coulson was better trained than that. "Then last night, I went to pay him a visit. The building next to his condo has a roof with a perfect line of sight through the guys front windows, so I set up there with a bow and waited." Clint's hands began to shake again and he gripped the bow until his knuckles went white. "He came home, I had a perfect shot on him, and I was just about to take it when a little boy ran from the other room to meet him. This little blond boy, Coulson, spitting image of his daddy, and I almost--"

Coulson gently took the bow from Clint's hands since he looked about ready to break it in half despite it's magnesium alloy grip. Clint covered his eyes with one hand but when he pulled it away he was composed again.

"He deserved to die but I couldn't, I just couldn't. I don't know what to do."

Coulson had never seen a man look so utterly defeated. "I can take care of this, if you'll let me. But I would need to know names and addresses, everything."

"I couldn't ask that of you, sir." It was probably the only time Coulson had heard Clint address him as "sir" without any hint of irony in his voice.

"Then don't. Let me ask you. I don't know if you've noticed, but I have considerably more pull here with SHIELD than you do, and if this is an issue that's affecting your work, that makes it my responsibility."

Clint stared at him as if trying to suss out an ulterior motive.

"Please. Let me help you."

Clint seemed to give in. "I can give you his name and address. That's all I can give you."

"That will be enough to start, but you said he killed someone. I need the name of his victim as well."

"I-- I didn't quite get a name."

"Then I'll need the address of the bar you were at, someone there can hopefully provide a name."

"I can't give that to you."

"Why not?" Coulson's tone even, but Clint glared as if he'd been accused of something.

"I can't have SHIELD finding out I was there."

"You aren't telling SHIELD, you're telling me."

Clint considered this a moment. "It's the Rodeo bar on fifth."

"The gay bar?"

Clint's eyes were wild but his voice was calm. "What of it?"

"Just confirming location, Barton."

"I knew this was a mistake." Clint stood up and grabbed the bow back from Coulson's desk.

Coulson stood up too, "I just want to help you, Hawkeye."

"You've helped enough, I'm going home. If you stop in again the crossbow won't be disabled this time." With that he walked out, leaving Coulson feeling more lost than before.

That evening after Coulson got off work, he walked by Clint's apartment building. There were no lights on so Coulson passed by without stopping. Clint wasn't answering his phone, but after their parting earlier, it was a safe bet that he was just screening his calls.

It was almost 2 AM and Coulson was in bed when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Agent Coulson?"

"Yes?"

"I'm a nurse at Forest Hills Hospital and we have a man here who came in with a gunshot wound, he's unconscious and had no ID on him but we did find your card and were hoping you could tell us who he is. He's about 5'10, with blond hair, does that ring a bell?"

A ball of ice formed in the pit of Coulson's gut. "Yes. Don't worry about an ID. If he wakes up before I get there, tell him to stay put, I'm coming."

Coulson hung up before waiting for a response. He threw on a jacket and was out the door in under a minute. The hospital wasn't too far, and though he was normally a drive-right-at-the-speed-limit type of guy, he sped the whole way there.

When he arrived he quickly realized he should have been more adamant with the nurse. Clint had fled the hospital only moments before.

Coulson hopped back in his car, ignoring the pleas of an orderly to "stay and wait for the police, please, sir, it's the law." They had his card, so SHIELD could handle the details with NYPD later. He circled the block, looking desperately for any sign of Clint. He had no idea where he was heading, or even what Clint was wearing to know what to look for. The nurses had removed Clint's clothes so for all Coulson knew he could be fleeing in a paper hospital gown. Coulson parked the car at a closed gas station so he could think.

He started with a list of what he knew. Clint had been shot, but not fatally. He hated hospitals so it was no surprise he'd taken off as soon as he was able. He'd witnessed a murder, so the killer would no doubt want him dead. That would account for the wound. An orderly at the hospital said Clint had walked in himself and promptly passed out before they could question him, which meant he could not have been shot too far from the hospital. The doctors had given him morphine, but without a steady drip, Clint would be in a world of pain sooner or later. A bear returns to his cave to lick his wounds, does that mean Clint would go home?

Coulson dreaded going back to that apartment, especially with the warning Clint had promised earlier, but it was all he could think of to do. "If you die on me, Clint," he thought, "I'll never forgive you." But the real truth was, he'd never forgive himself.

Coulson parked on the street in front of Clint’s apartment and got out. A quick survey told him there was little going on in the area. There were no lights on in Clint’s building, or oddly, any of the others on the street. In fact, the only light visible anywhere nearby, once Coulson turned off the headlights of his car, was a single flickering street lamp about two blocks down. He decided that was a good thing; if anything it meant fewer witnesses to what he was about to do.

He knocked first, but didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. Next he tried the door. It was locked this time, but locks had never stopped Coulson. He was more worried about what horrifically clever little traps were possibly lying in wait for him just inside the door. A window, he figured, would be slightly safer, and have the advantage of some visual of the apartment before he entered. The back kitchen window he’d spied the first time he’d visited would have easier access, but that would also make it more obvious, and Coulson wouldn’t put it past Clint to have it booby-trapped as well. Clint’s bedroom window, one floor up and to the left side would pose too high of a risk for would-be robbers to try, which made it a perfect target for Coulson.

A small, sticky explosive made quick work of the window, and Coulson’s car alarm covered up any sounds it made. He had to laugh at the irony of using a warning meant to deter crime as a means of covering one up. Sometimes it was a blessing that no one thought anything of such sounds anymore. Still, to avoid too much attention, he shut it off and waited in silence to see if anyone would care enough to show themselves. No one did.

There was still no hint of life from Clint’s apartment, so Coulson shot his grappling hook, another toy from SHIELD, to the roof, where it found sound purchase on the first try. It pulled him to the broken window slowly but smoothly. He threw a doubled-up towel over the window ledge and cautiously pulled himself inside.

It was, if possible, even darker and quieter inside than it had been out on the street. Coulson pulled out a flashlight and did a quick search of the place. It was a small apartment, and it didn’t take long to check it top to bottom. He had been right not to come through the front door. Not only was the crossbow from before armed and ready to fire, there was something sticky waiting to fall from above, and something that smelled suspiciously like napalm waiting to coat the whole staircase if triggered. Still, no Clint.

Coulson exited the same way he’d come in, doing his best to hide any evidence visible from the street of his visit. The window couldn’t be helped, but another survey of the street confirmed it wasn’t the only busted window around. He was about to hop back in his car to do another search between the apartment and the hospital when he heard the unmistakable sound of a garbage can being knocked over in the alley a block down. Clint drew his SHIELD-issued firearm and ran after the noise.

He found Clint, barely conscious and slumped over the can. The bandages on his chest were dark with blood and when Coulson pulled him into his arms Clint didn’t seem to recognize him at first. He weakly fought back, but it was the blind panic of a cornered animal, and with no weapon, he was no threat to Coulson. Finally, he seemed to come to his senses.

“Phil?”

“It’s me, don’t talk, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No!” Clint grabbed Coulson’s wrist as he went for his cellphone with a grip much tighter than Coulson would have expected from a gunshot victim. “Don’t. They know. They’ll finish me if I go back there.”

“You’ll die if you don’t go back there.” Coulson knew they didn’t have time to argue the matter, and Clint was clearly not in a good frame of mind but that wouldn’t stop Clint from trying.

“I’ll die if I go. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that got him. Clint had never said anything to Coulson with such absolute conviction before. “Okay, okay. But I need to take you somewhere and get that looked at.”

“First aid at my apartment,” Clint wheezed.

“No good. You need a doctor.”

Clint shook his head violently. “No doctors! They’ll know…” He struggled to remain conscious.

“Fine. I know someone, come on.” Clint tried to stand when Coulson pulled him to his feet, but it was obvious he wasn’t making it much further. Coulson scooped him up pietà-style and carried him to the car, peeling out as he made a hasty call on his cell.


	2. Saving him

When Clint came to, he was immediately aware of numbness in his right arm. Panicked, he tried to cradle it in his other arm, but was stopped by two things. First, his left arm was attached to a short IV cord, which was dripping clear liquid from a bag hanging right above it. Secondly, the cause of the numbness was pressure from a sleeping Agent Coulson’s head. Clint was laying on what appeared to be a kitchen table, with some sort of padding on it, and towels thrown over that. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he decided he was safe, for the time being. This was no hospital, and after all, Coulson was here.

He tried to pull his arm out from under Coulson’s head gently, so as not to wake him, but gentle was apparently a little beyond him in his weakened state. Coulson woke up, looked confused for a moment, then seemed to remember where he was. “You’re awake! Wait, don’t move.”

Coulson got up and walked into another room that Clint could just barely see from where he lay if he craned his neck. There were hushed voices and then Coulson came back, leading a vaguely familiar man in tow.

“Clint, this is Doctor Strange. He saved your life.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed at the word “doctor” but trusted Coulson enough to give him a chance to explain. If this man was under the thumb of the man who wanted Clint dead, he probably would have done something while they were both unconscious anyway.

“It’s been a few years since I preformed straight forward surgery, you could almost say I missed it. You’ll be fine, the ER doc did a good job, I only had to fix some of the damage you’d caused by running away. You really shouldn’t be out of bed for two weeks at least, with the extent of your injuries.” Clint snorted at that last remark but didn’t respond, so the doctor continued, “You’re welcome to stay here, of course, but Agent Coulson here has already generously offered to let you stay at his place until your own can be made safe again.”

That, Clint laughed at, or would have, if the attempt hadn’t caused him a wave of pain sharp enough to make him almost throw up. “I hate to tell you Coulson, but your place is possibly the only place, barring my own, that’s even less safe than hospital right now.”

“I’ll let you two discuss this,” Doctor Strange said with a significant glance at Coulson, and left the room.

“I understand your concern, Barton. But I do have a safe house for such circumstances. You technically aren’t supposed to know its location, but I feel on this one, Director Fury won’t mind so much.”

“Are you going to tell him about all this?” Clint looked suddenly angry.

“No, I’m not. I called him when the doctor was tending to you and told him we have a code purple.”

Clint gave Coulson the you-think-I’m-supposed-to-know-what-that-means? look.

“A code purple means there’s an Agent in trouble with the law. Whoever calls in the code has 24 hours to sort it out. If it can’t be handled in that time, the Director will have to be brought on board.”

“So he knows there’s trouble, but no details.”

“Correct.”

“What time did you call? What time is it right now?” He looked around again, but he already knew there were no windows, and no visible clocks that could give him any hints.

Coulson checked his watch. “It’s just after 1000 hours. I called him 2 hours ago.”

“Then we have 22 hours. How long will it take to get to your safe house?”

“About half an hour, but I really don’t think you should be moved just yet.”

Clint was already swinging his legs off the table, carefully sitting up and trying to remove the IV, when the doctor came back in. “I wouldn’t take that out if I were you,” he said.

“No offense, but you aren’t me.” Clint’s fingers weren’t working quite properly but he almost had the tape off.

“But I am your doctor.” The tone was even, no hint of threat, but Clint stopped pulling at the tape and laid back down on the bed, completely not of his own volition.

Clint’s eyes were panicky again. “Coulson, what the fuck is going on here.”

“I should have mentioned, our good Doctor here isn’t just a surgeon. He’s a rather special sometimes-consultant for SHIELD. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands, he’s just doing what’s best for you. Everything will be okay.” Coulson said, gripping Clint’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

Clint opened his mouth to tell Coulson just how NOT okay everything was going to be if they stayed here much longer, but then everything went black again.

The next time Clint woke up, he was in an unfamiliar bed in an equally unfamiliar room. It was absolutely quiet, and he refrained from breaking the silence out of habit. First he checked his arms, there was no IV. The bandages on his chest itched, and he braced himself for pain as he sat up but it never came. Carefully, he pulled back part of the bandage to inspect the wound, but aside from some dried blood and a faint scar, his chest was unmarked. He pulled off the rest of the bandages, being as quiet as he could, and tried to piece together the last thing he remembered.

There had been a strange doctor. No, that wasn't right, Strange was his name. Or title. That hadn't been clear. Coulson had taken him there for his gunshot, but he wasn't a normal doctor. For some reason Clint hadn't wanted to see a doctor because someone was after him, though he couldn't remember why.

Clint crawled out of bed with the intent of escape, or at the very least, finding some clues to explain where he currently was. The walls were cream colored, and the sheets on the bed were deep red. The room was spartan, without windows, decorations, or even much furniture. There was the bed, and a small table with a lamp on the left side, and a small chair that looked like a piece of an economical dinner set was sitting off to the right. Along one wall stood a simple dresser, with a small dish full in the center. In the dish was a keyring with three keys on it. Clint grabbed them, gripping them in his fist so they stuck outward like claws. It wasn't much in the way of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. He was suddenly very aware that he was wearing nothing but boxers. Boxers that weren't his.

The only door was ajar, spilling light in from whatever lay beyond. Inching silently, Clint made his way to it, and slipped through without touching it. The door led to a hallway, that was lit with a small nightlight. The nearest door was ajar as the other had been, and soft light was coming from within, but he couldn't quite fit through without opening it slightly. He pushed slowly, lifting slightly on the handle to take some of the weight off the hinges but they still gave a small protestant <i>squeak</i>.

He stepped inside to a flurry of movement and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun.

Clint froze, instinctively bringing up his fist with the keys, though they would be little protection against a gun, but before either one of them could react with any consequences, he and Coulson recognized each other and dropped their respective weapons to their sides. They stood facing another without saying a word, chests rising and falling quicker than usual as they recovered from the rush of adrenaline.

“Clint.” Coulson made to move towards him, but Clint took a step back, raising the keys again. A look of concerned confusion came across Coulson’s face, and he stopped, dropped the gun just out of reach on the bed and put his hands up in universal surrender.

Clint stared at the gun, conflicted about how to proceed.

“I know you’re confused. The doctor said memory impairment could be a likely side effect, but I assure you, you’re safe here. Do you remember me?” Coulson watched as Clint slowly reached for the gun. His face betrayed no emotion, but a light sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

Clint grabbed the gun, put it on the floor, and slid it under the bed. Coulson didn’t visibly react, but an air of tension seemed to leave the room. “I remember you. I remember almost everything. I remember I was shot. I don’t remember why, or who did it. The only thing I do know for certain is that I am most certainly not safe. What did the freaky doctor do to me?”

Coulson’s face was a mask, but it slipped for a moment when Clint said he wasn’t safe, and he almost looked hurt. He recovered quickly enough, no doubt the result of years of close training, but it was still interesting. Clint stored this for future scrutiny.

“Doctor Strange healed you. He wasn’t sure if he could do so safely before. He wanted to heal you normally with surgery and time, but when you made it clear you weren’t going to allow for the time aspect of that, I convinced him to try and heal you with magic. Did it work?”

Clint ran a hand over the small scar that was all that was left for evidence that he’d been shot. “Yeah,” he was lost in thought, but then laughed at the absurdity of what Coulson had just told him. “Magic? Would it be too much to ask for to have normal coworkers?” It felt good to laugh, though there was still something nagging him in the back of his mind that he couldn’t place.

Coulson’s mouth twitched at the corner, the closest he would come to a smile under the current circumstances. “Do you remember what I told you before about the code purple?”

Clint stopped laughing. He did remember now. “We have 24 hours to fix this.”

“We have about 14 hours now. You’ve been asleep for a while.”

Clint reached up to rub his forehead where a headache threatened. “Dammit. I can’t even remember anything about it.”

“I might be able to help with that. Would you come with me to the kitchen?”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t suppose you’d have any clothes I could borrow?”

“Oh.” Coulson’s eyes left Clint’s for the first time since he’d pointed the gun at him, to travel down his body, then to look at his own. They were both wearing nothing but matching blue boxer shorts. “Yeah, uh, the dresser in the room you were in has some sweats. I’ll just go throw on some coffee.” Coulson’s face was quickly turning the same color as the sheets on the bed where Clint had awoken.

When Clint came back into the kitchen, Coulson was dressed in sweats like Clint was and was busying himself making coffee. Clint sat at the table. He noticed that one of the chairs was missing—presumably the one by his bed in the other room. Something confusing stirred inside him, but he dismissed the feeling.

“I know you don’t drink coffee, but I need some if I’m going to pull another all-nighter.” Coulson said without turning around. “I think there’s some orange juice in the fridge if you’re thirsty; cups are in the cabinet right beside it.”

Clint was thirsty, but orange juice didn’t sound so good at the moment. He pulled out a glass and filled it with tap water. He sat back down and once Coulson had a mug of coffee steaming in hand, he sat down on the opposite side.

“Now, this is a little unconventional, but I want you to bear with me. If you’re up for it, I think we can refresh your memory.”

Clint stared without response. He’d need a little more explanation than that before agreeing to anything.

Coulson stared back, face unreadable. “I want to hypnotize you.”

Clint raised a eyebrow. “I knew a guy who called himself a hypnotist back in the circus. Even he admitted it was utter bullshit.”

“He was a performer, not a psychologist,” Coulson said, not missing a beat.

“And you’re a psychologist now?”

“I have a degree in psychology, yes.”

“Criminal psychology, if I remember correctly.”

Coulson smiled. “Same thing.”

“I still don’t think it’ll work.”

“Won’t know until we try. And time’s ticking.”

Clint looked at the clock on the microwave worryingly. It was just after 6.

“Fine. But you have to promise me something.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t go looking around my mind. Stick to the past few days events.”

“I promise.” Coulson looked right into Clint’s eyes and Clint could see no lie there. Of course, knowing Coulson, he could probably say the sky was green and not have a lie in his eyes, but Clint still wanted to trust him for some reason.

“So,” Clint said awkwardly, “How do we do this thing?”

“Are you comfortable?”

Clint shifted in the chair. “Uh, sure.”

“Good. Put your arms on the table palms up.” Clint did so. “Now lean back and close your eyes.” When he did, Clint felt the light pressure of a single finger being placed in the center of each palm. Slowly, the fingers began to trace spirals on his palms. “How does that feel?” Coulson asked, his voice low and calm.

“Uh, weird.”

Coulson laughed softly. “That’s because you’re so tense. Relax. Imagine you have your bow. You’re about to shoot a target at the range.”

Clint felt himself slip a little hesitantly into the trance he always went to when he was shooting. The rest of the world went quiet, until it was just the target. He could feel it, and nothing else.

“Good.” Coulson’s voice floated to his ears, as if from a distance. “Do you remember the last time you were in the range.”

Clint did. It had been right before their argument, when Clint had told Coulson something. What was it? He nodded.

“Don’t worry about the details. Just remember shooting the arrows at the target. Did you hit it?”

“I was missing. I never miss.”

“Yes, but you were upset. You were tense. You can hit the target now, if you just relax.”

Clint took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yes, he felt it. He could shoot now, and it would go straight to the center as if it had always been there.

“Good. Hold onto that feeling. Now try to remember why you were upset.”

The memory came back, but now it wasn’t happening to Clint. It was happening to some other Clint. Other Clint felt guilt, and fear. The guilt was from a death that had happened, that Other Clint couldn’t stop. The fear was that the same thing would happen to him. There was more, but it hurt to touch, and Clint pulled away from it.

“It’s okay, Clint. You’re relaxed, you’re safe. You don’t have to be afraid.” Coulson’s voice was no longer Coulson’s. It was his mother’s, it was his brother’s, from before everything was bad. The voice was right. It couldn’t hurt to see why Other Clint was upset when he was safe.

He watched, curious, as a scene played out before him. Other Clint was at a club, trying to drink away his loneliness. A cute boy took a shine to him. He wasn’t Other Clint’s type, but his lips were warm, and his caresses were good. In the alley, more caresses, more need. But they were torn away. Hands held him back as the boys face took hit after hit. When his face was unrecognizable, the hits went lower, and Other Clint could only struggle, limbs held immobile, while the life was beaten out of the boy inch by inch. There was a flash of light, a shout, and suddenly Other Clint could move again. The man with the killers fists ran. Other Clint tried to follow, but his limbs were stuck in molasses and wouldn’t obey him.

Like a dream, Other Clint was suddenly somewhere else. A rooftop. Watching as the killer came home, about to shoot, but a little boy ran in. Then the boy wasn’t the boy anymore, he was a young Clint, and he was running to the arms of his own father.

His father swung him around, almost dropping him. He could smell the whiskey on his father’s breath. “Don’t get lost.” His father told him. “I was an abusive drunk, and it was a relief for you when I took myself from your life. It’s too late for your friend, but not for the boy. Do what you have to. Save him the way I accidentally saved you.” Then his father wasn’t his father anymore.

He was the killer, standing with a gun trained on Other Clint’s chest. Other Clint had a gun in his hand too, also pointed at the man’s chest, but his hand was shaking. “Don’t bother,” the man said, “I have connections everywhere. Every police station, every hospital, everywhere you will ever go for help. I took the liberty of convincing the world that you killed that pathetic faggot you were with. I’ve seen where you live, no family, no friends, who would ever believe your word over mine?” A gun went off, and Clint’s chest burst into pain.

“Clint!”

Clint’s eyes flew open to find himself on the floor of the kitchen. Coulson was cradling his head, looking panicked.

“Come back to me Clint. Please.”

Clint tried to tell him that he was alright, but a coughing fit took over. His chest felt like he’d been shot all over again.

“I’m so sorry, you went too deep, your heart stopped. I did CPR, but, I thought I lost you.”

Clint shook his head and sat up with Coulson’s help. He put a hand on Coulson’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. When he could talk again he said, “I remember. And I know what I have to do. Will you help me?”

Coulson put a hand on Clint’s shoulder to mirror him and gave a grim but determined smile. “Always.”

"Is there a computer here?" Clint asked Coulson.

"Yes, my laptop, let me go and get it." Coulson stood up and Clint made to join him. "No, you stay here. You gave me quiet a scare there, I'm not letting you move around just yet."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Oh fine, at least help me into a chair so I don't feel like an idiot sitting on the floor?"

Coulson leaned down and slipped an arm under Clint's shoulder and slid a chair under him when he tried to stand. "There, now stay put. I'll be right back."

He knew Clint probably felt he was being a little overprotective, but Clint had almost died for the third, or was it fourth? time in just a couple days, and this time was utterly Coulson's fault. He saw no reason to push his luck any further.

When he returned with the computer, he found Clint peaking out the small, barred window above the sink. "Where are we?" he asked.

"My safe house. Queens." He sat the computer on the table and booted it up.

"You sleep with a gun under your pillow in your safe house?" Clint joined him at the table.

"Suppose that's the irony of safe houses. We only go there when we really aren't safe at all."

"Can you access SHIELD's databases from here?"

Coulson pulled up the directory with a few keystrokes and typed in his password.

"The killer's name is Charles Miller, goes by Chuck."

Coulson tried not to look too surprised. "The Mayor's aide?"

"That's the one." Clint's face was dark.

Coulson pulled up his file from the DMV and a handful of articles about him. He saved them to the desktop.

Clint continued. "There should be a police record of what happened in the alley."

Coulson did a quick search with the date and location. There was no police record in the database, but he did find a short write-up from the police blotter from the Times. He read: "Federal prosecutors are looking into the assault and murder of an unidentified male, mid-twenties, with dark hair. Police interrupted the crime in-progress in an alley on 5th St. Three of the perpetrators were apprehended and taken into custody, but the murderer and an unidentified second victim fled the scene before backup could arrive. The crime is believed to be hate-motivated, and possibly gang-related. Anyone with information regarding this crime should contact the NYPD."

"He told me he used his connections to convince everyone I was the murderer."

"But you were the second victim."

"I know that, and you know that. But it was dark, and the cops didn't get a good look at anyone. He can pin this on me, easily. The word of a known assassin with a previous criminal record, against a family man with ties to the mayor? 'Chuck' is right, the jury won't take one glance at the facts before giving him my head on a silver platter."

"You aren't just any assassin. You work for SHIELD. That does give you some perks."

"It won't be enough. Unless we get a confession, I'm as good as dead."

"So we need to convince him to confess."

"He won't without some serious leverage. Pull up those articles again, there was something I remember reading about him."

Coulson brought them up one by one until Clint found the one he was looking for.

"There. He had another son. The one I saw in his house is from his second marriage. His first son was older, and disappeared four year ago, the victim of a crime. Can you find the record of that?"

This time the search pulled up multiple police reports and articles. Chuck's son David had disappeared from the rodeo bar on 5th street four years ago. A large amount of blood found in the alley behind the bar identified as his made everyone suspect foul play. The case was still open, but there had been no new leads in years.

"Sound familiar?"

"I'm surprised this case isn't mentioned in the blotter, the connection seems obvious."

Clint shrugged. "It's an alley in a not-so-great part of New York. I doubt those two are the only incidents to happen there."

"True. What's it mean though? Why attack you and kill someone in the alley where his son was murdered?"

"Is there a picture of his son on the article?"

Coulson scrolled down. At the bottom there was a high school senior picture of a handsome blond boy. Clint shivered.

"Add a few years, dye his hair black, and that's the boy from the bar. Chuck didn't kill him randomly. He killed his son."

Coulson hissed. "And now he's using his connections to cover it up. That's why there's no police record."

"And why he wants me dead so badly. Come on." Clint stood up and offered a hand to Coulson.

"Come where?"

"To give him an ultimatum. Bring your gun, we're gonna need it."


	3. Saving me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-specific trigger warning: What SHIELD does is not child-friendly, and this is a good example of that. Quite dark, but non-graphic subject matter inside. It has a happy ending though, in case you were worried.

It was an hour later. Clint and Coulson were sitting in Coulson's car outside the condo of the man they were about to confront. Both were armed with handguns and wearing Kevlar vests. Clint would have preferred a bow, but Coulson's safe house armory was sadly lacking in those. He promised to stock up on them for the next time they had to plan a last minute assault on a government official in the middle of the night.

"Last chance," Coulson said, "We could bring SHIELD up to speed on what we know. Let them play politics, make sure the police aren't bullied into sweeping this under the rug."

Clint shook his head. "That could take years. Meanwhile, that man has another son who needs protecting. I want this settled now. If you don't want to be involved anymore, I would understand."

Coulson pulled out his gun and checked it over one more time. "I said I would help you. I meant it. Whatever happens, I have your back." He reached over and squeezed Clint's hand, before letting go self-consciously. Clint gave him a half-smile. Coulson cleared his throat. "Do you have it?"

Clint patted his pocket. "Yup. Still can't believe you have something like this just laying around."

"I believe it was one of Natasha's."

"Guess that doesn't surprise me at all." He laughed nervously.

Clint checked the time on the dash. Just after 9. Chuck had put their young son to bed, and his wife was reading in their bedroom, leaving Chuck alone in their living room watching TV. It was now or never. With a final nod, they left the car and converged on the front door or the condo.

Coulson knocked, quiet but urgent. The moment Chuck answered, they pushed their way in. Coulson grabbed his wrists, securing them behind his back with a zip tie, while Clint stuck duct tape over his mouth.

"Remember me, Chuck?" Clint whispered. The man's eyes went wide and he struggled uselessly against Coulson's grip. They quickly escorted him out of the house and into the car.

Coulson shoved him in the back seat, and Clint joined them from the other side. "So here's the deal, Chuck. May I call you Chuck? We know what you did. You had me really scared there, you see. I thought you were just a psychopath who got off by beating innocent guys to death. But you're worse than that, aren't you? You wanted me to think that, so I wouldn't find out the truth. It wasn't random; you targeted him. David, your son." Chuck's eyes went from concerned to furious.

"That's right. In the same alley where he disappeared. Were you involved then too? You were on your way up, looking pretty with the Mayor, kissing all the right ass. But your son wasn't like you. David would rather party than study. Instead of playing ball with the boys, he liked to date them. You couldn't have that. So you made him disappear, or he made himself disappear, and you both were better for it. But then he comes back. Hits up a bar. One of your informants gives you the news, and you decide it would be a perfect time to tie up old loose ends. So you beat him to death. Rely on your connections with the police to cover it up. Problem solved, right? Except it goes wrong. You created another loose end. Me. You thought I would be easy enough to take care of. No family, no friends, who would even miss me?" Clint looked away from Chuck to look into Coulson's eyes. He nodded in reassurance.

"But that isn't true. I have one friend. A damn good one. And he has connections, too. One word from him and the police will be falling over themselves to get to the bottom of the incident in the alley you so cleverly kept off the record. So you must be asking yourself, if this is true, then why haven't we already gone to the police? Why go through all the hassle of inviting you out here with us tonight? Well, that was my idea. I wanted to give you a choice."

Clint pulled out the object from his pocket. "See this? It looks like an ordinary cell phone, because that's what it is. But it's extraordinary in one way. See, it has the two buttons for 'send' and 'end' here. If you push the 'send' button, you get a straight call through to NYPD, where you can confess to your crimes and wait for them to come collect you for processing. But that's rather boring on its own. The 'end' button, though, is a little more exciting. See, it's perfectly appropriate, because that's exactly what it does. It ends your life. Just hit that button and a gas will spray from the phone's receiver that will kill you seconds. If you choose that option, we'll take your body back inside, place it on your couch in front of the TV and no one will be the wiser. It will look like a heart attack even if they do an autopsy. They might figure out your connection to David's murder, they might not. So those are your choices. Personally, I was just going to shoot you if you didn't feel like confessing, but my friend here came up with the idea for the phone, and I must say I rather like it. In a second, we'll take this tape off your mouth and wait outside the car. If in five minutes you still haven't pushed one of the buttons, I will shoot you and go straight to the police with everything we know. Make sense?"

Chuck glared, and after a long pause, nodded.

Clint spoke to Coulson, "I've got my gun on him, retie his hands in front of him."

When that was done, Clint handed Chuck the phone and they got out of the car to stand on either side. They both stared attentively while Chuck stared at the phone, unmoving. After a couple of minutes, he tried the other buttons, but they had been disabled and did nothing. After another minute, Clint tapped on the window with the gun to remind him what was in store if he didn't hit one of the buttons. Finally, Chuck made his selection, and raised the phone to his face.

\---

The next day, Coulson and Clint were back in Coulson's office, finishing the mountain of paperwork that was from SHIELD, NYPD, and inexplicably, the FBI.

"I thought the beauty of a full confession meant we would avoid all this?" Clint grumbled as he finished the last form of his pile and collapsed on top of them all.

Coulson automatically shot out a hand to steady his own pile, which was considerably taller than Clint's and in danger of tipping over at any second. "After finding out just how deep the corruption Chuck had sown throughout the various agencies went, they need to be really sure to dot every 'i' and cross every 't' on this one. Just think of it this way: every paper we're signing here represents another year added onto his prison sentence."

"I'm still amazed he confessed at all. I thought he cared more about his reputation than anything, why else would he murder his son?"

"I'm not surprised. He loved his reputation because he loves himself. Killing himself would be killing his favorite thing in the world."

"You knew he wouldn't do it. Why did you go along with my crazy idea to give him the option?" Clint put his chin on his arms and stared up at Coulson from across the desk they were sharing.

"I suspected. But it was important to you that he have the choice. The man killed someone in front of you, and then tried to kill you as well. I thought this way you would have some closure."

Clint was quiet for a long time. Finally, he whispered "Thank you," and turned to go.

"Oh, Barton?"

Clint stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back. "Yeah?"

"I know SHIELD assigned you a safe house of your own to stay at until you can get a new apartment, but if you wanted some company today, my place is closer, and I'm almost done here."

Clint thought about it for a moment. "Um, yeah sure. That would be nice, thank you."

They had been spent the entire night going from the police station, to SHIELD, to the mayor's office, and back, finishing with all the paperwork around the time when Clint usually came into work if he wasn't on assignment. When they left it was almost noon. Fury gave them both a few days off to recover and they promised to make good use of them.

Coulson's place turned out to be an apartment not too far from Clint's old one, though it was in much better shape. The walls were a tasteful grey and white, which navy trim. Everything was clean, but without feeling sterile. Clint decided he like it a lot.

Coulson led him to the kitchen, which was bigger than the one in the safe house, and lit with lots of big windows letting in the midday sun. "Are you hungry?" Coulson asked, hand on the fridge door.

Clint's stomach growled at the suggestion, and he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

"I'll take that as a yes. I don't have many food options, I'm afraid, but I could make ham sandwiches if you'd like?"

Clint agreed he would like that very much, please and thank you. After inhaling their food, they crashed on the couch to watch TV. There was a tension in the air, but they were both pointedly pretending everything was normal. After a while, Clint couldn't take it anymore.

"Are we going to do something about this or are we going to keep trying to ignore it?" Clint asked him, muting the TV.

"About what?"

"This," Clint replied, taking Coulson's face in his hand and kissing him full on the mouth.

Coulson hesitated, pulling away. "You've been through a lot in the past few days are you sure you aren't just--"

Clint shut him up with another kiss. This time Coulson didn't resist.

They moved to Coulson's bed but were both too tired to do much more than cuddle for a while and fall asleep in the other's arms. Reality would come later, they decided. For now, they were safe, and for the first time in a long while for either of them, they were happy.


End file.
